


A Present of Years

by whitedatura



Series: Future, Past, Present [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Era, Spoilers for 5x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitedatura/pseuds/whitedatura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Merlin, faced with the knowledge that they'll have to leave Albion behind, negotiate the beginnings of their new lives together. Merlin struggles to believe that Arthur is meant to stay with him. Arthur just wants some boots.<br/>(A direct continuation of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/608047">A Future in Three Days</a>, a post-5.13 canon era fix-it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Present of Years

**Author's Note:**

> The third and final part of my little no-reincarnation-necessary series, [Future, Past, Present](http://archiveofourown.org/series/32792).
> 
> This turned out a bit longer than I expected.

They camp at the lake that night, for all Merlin never wants to see it again. One day that will change, but for now it reminds him only of the three days Arthur had been gone from the world, out of Merlin's reach, and not of his miraculous return. The giddy euphoria that had overwhelmed him upon seeing Arthur alive has long since drained away, replaced by the creeping doubtful thought: how long can this last?

Camp is little more than a pile of twigs set magically ablaze, all of their gear had been summarily abandoned when Merlin had desperately called to Kilgharrah for aid. He hasn't felt cold or hungry since he'd sent Arthur across the lake to Avalon. Now, though, after a few hours of Arthur's solid presence at his side, he feels both. He can hear Arthur's stomach growl, but neither move from where they sit, staring into the fire and the darkening water beyond, shoulder to shoulder. Material needs seem too trivial to address; what does food matter when Merlin's purpose has been returned to him, whole and hale? 

"What are you going to do now?" Merlin finally asks, breaking the silence.

"What am _I_ going to do?" Arthur repeats. He shifts his left foot closer to Merlin's right, toes deliberately nudging Merlin's bare heel. Arthur has no boots; Merlin's have been dumped in an untidy pile on the shore for the past three days, silt and mud from the lakebed dried on the soles of his feet.

If this day were anything approaching normal, Merlin would say, Yes, Arthur, that's what I asked. Are your ears clogged? -- but it isn't, so Merlin stays quiet.

"Don't you mean what are _we_ going to do?" Arthur asks, the nudge becoming more of a push. There's a long pause in which Merlin wonders if it needs to be said aloud that he will follow Arthur anywhere. A strange mix of longing and resignation crosses Arthur's face as he adds, "Unless -- do you wish to return to Camelot?"

"No," Merlin says quickly. "Not if you can't." Of that Arthur had seemed certain: the mysterious forces that occupied Avalon had forbidden Arthur's return to his throne, his home. "My place is with you, until the day--" His throat closes on the last words and he tries to swallow around it but cannot. He feels stripped bare, laid open under the falling twilight, the loss too fresh in his mind.

Arthur says, gently, "I am not your king anymore, Merlin."

Merlin shakes his head, forces the words past the lump in his throat. "Whether you have a crown or not makes no difference to me."

They are quiet as true night sinks into the land, the sliver of moon hanging in the sky painting Arthur's features silver where the golden tones of the fire do not reach. The paleness is too painful a reminder so Merlin looks away, hoping that the brittle feeling will pass.

"Merlin," Arthur starts, stops, starts again. "Merlin." Whatever Arthur sees on his face seems to change his mind. "Let's get some rest, plans can wait until morning."

Merlin manages a nod and the warmth pressed against his arm disappears as Arthur flops gracelessly onto his back, eyes pointedly closed. The rise and fall of his chest makes looking at him bearable -- more than, really, as Merlin finds he cannot tear his gaze away from that small movement, rhythmic and calming and _alive_.

"Are you going to sleep," Arthur asks without opening his eyes, "or are you going to stare at me all night?"

"Stare," Merlin answers truthfully. He is tired, but it feels as if each inhale and exhale he witnesses is stitching together an unseen wound in his chest he'd grown so used to he'd hardly realized it was there, raw and aching.

"Come here," Arthur says, coaxing. He moves his arm away from his side, eyes slitting open as he beckons Merlin to him. If Arthur had offered this before, Merlin would have immediately suspected that he'd end up in a headlock. Now he takes it for what it is: comfort freely given. He lays down and curls into Arthur's side, ear pressed to his chest. If the sight of Arthur's breathing clumsily sewed the ragged edges of his hurt together, hearing the steady beat of his heart is a flood of healing magic that knits his flesh together seamlessly.

They sleep.

The rising sun finds them unmoved, the same steady thump under Merlin's cheek fills him with unfathomable gratitude. Arthur's voice rumbles in his ear as he says, "There's a column of smoke to the north."

Merlin is on his feet in an instant, crouching beside Arthur's still-prone form as he lays a protective hand on his ribs. It's the work of a moment to spot the smoke and shape a rush of magic to see a trio of Saxons squatting at their campfire, cooking. He blinks to clear his vision and reports his findings to Arthur, who has his hands under his head, gazing up at the dawn, a picture of relaxation.

"All right then," Arthur says, "let's go."

For a second Merlin dumbly assumes Arthur means go _away_ from the enemy, but of course he doesn't. He's Arthur. Wonderfully, fantastically Arthur. They have a brief argument that is absurd in its normality when Merlin tries to get Arthur to wear his boots. (He won't.) Since they have nothing to pack and take with them they are away from the lake within minutes, and the Saxons are defeated shortly thereafter.

"That was a bit bandit-ish of us, wasn't it?" Merlin asks, surveying the small camp. No horses, unfortunately, so wherever they go from here will be on foot.

"They're Saxons. That was justice."

"I'm just saying," Merlin continues, "we did sort of do this so we could rob them of their shoes."

" _Mer_ lin."

Merlin grins, ducking his head so Arthur won't see.

"And don't even think that just because you can wave your hand and knock people over means that I'm going to sit by and let you," Arthur says, dropping the branch he'd swung quite effectively at the third Saxon's head when Merlin had been occupied with the other two. "Take that one's boots," he demands before continuing, "And I think we should establish that _I_ am the fighter here. You shouldn't reveal yourself unless it's necessary. It'll give us an advantage."

"Planning on robbing a lot of Saxons, then?" Merlin asks and gets a glare in response.

Their appropriated breakfast is somewhat burnt, but the weapons and other supplies are serviceable enough. Arthur looks more like himself in a leather jerkin with a sword strapped to his hip and less like the ethereal almost-stranger that had been sent back across the lake. 

"We should find somewhere more protected," Merlin says, scraping the last salvageable bits of porridge from the pot. "There are more Saxons out there, and Gaius--" he stops. Gaius knew where I was taking you, he almost says, and I've been gone long enough that they'll be wondering if I intend to come back.

Arthur nods, standing to scan the surrounding forest. "That way," he decides with a wave of his sword.

"No," Merlin says, hand on Arthur's shoulder before he can go a step. "Not that way."

"Why not?"

Merlin grits his teeth, jaw clenched, willing back the sudden spring of tears. "Because."

Arthur, oblivious, presses for an answer. "Because why?"

"Because somewhere over there you _died_ ," Merlin forces out.

There is a long silence. "Sorry," Arthur says, stepping in to Merlin, and now it's his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "I didn't think."

"It's fine," Merlin says, roughly swiping at his eyes. It's fine and it isn't -- Arthur stands before him now, but he only half believes it. The other half is waiting for the gods or the spirits of Avalon or a light breeze to take Arthur back as a final cruel joke. "I'm sorry for overreacting."

"There's nothing to apologize for," Arthur says, then reaches out and kisses him, close-mouthed. They had not spoken of that first desperate press of lips as they knelt on the shore of Avalon, they hadn't needed to. Merlin has had so little room in his heart for anyone besides Arthur for so long now it's as if he's always felt this way, irrevocably tied and bound, even if Arthur has never understood just how tightly.

Merlin thinks, leaning into him, that Arthur might have an idea of it now.

The way Arthur is looking at him when he moves away makes his face heat. He clears his throat to say, "You should wear a cloak, Arthur," and finds it funny how easily 'sire' wants to roll off his tongue. Out of habit, Merlin swings the sensible brown fabric around Arthur's shoulders, off-balance enough that his fingers shake as he tries to fasten it at his throat. Arthur catches his wrists, looking at him through lowered lashes as he brushes his lips over Merlin's fingertips before he finishes tying the cloak himself.

They head southwest, away from both the lake and the path they'd taken to reach it. Arthur pulls the hood of his cloak up, hiding his face as they skirt a group of travelers heading east. The simple gesture makes Merlin realize that they'll have to leave Albion for Arthur to be able to live in the sunlight as he deserves, without having to worry about being recognized. Even after the news of the King of Camelot's death spreads throughout the land there will be no body for proof, and people will believe what they want to believe. It would be unfair to Guinevere's fledgling rule for Arthur to remain when a rumor could damage the foundations of the kingdom more than an opposing army.

Merlin glances sidelong at Arthur as they walk, wondering how much of this he must know even as he turns the notion of it over in his mind. He knows that he wouldn't have been able to return to Camelot without Arthur, not when every stone would remind him of what had been lost, but the thought of crossing the sea and leaving Albion behind altogether is jarring. 

They break around midday in a secluded grove of trees bordered by a small stream. With a few quiet words, Merlin encourages the trees to hide them from travelers and other dangers. It is the first either of them have spoken in hours.

"I could glamour you," Merlin says abruptly, finding no gentler way of broaching the subject. "You'd have to avoid your reflection, but I could keep it up. Probably."

"What are you on about?" Arthur asks, his eyes narrowing. He pushes the hood of his cloak back, his hairline darkened with sweat.

Haltingly, Merlin tells Arthur what he is surely already aware of, as his expression does not change throughout his rambling explanation of rumors and rules. "But if I glamoured you, we could stay here, if you wanted. We wouldn't have to leave Albion."

Something in the tense line of Arthur's mouth softens. "What do _you_ want, Merlin?"

"To stay with you," Merlin answers honestly.

"You're quite simple to please, aren't you?" Arthur shoots Merlin a fleeting grin that leaves the tips of his ears and the back of his neck warm. "That's what I want, too. Does it matter where? Between your magic and my fighting prowess we can explore the world, see things no one else has ever seen." They both know that Arthur never would have been able to explore the world beyond his borders as a king -- nor would he have wanted to.

The bright shine of Arthur's eyes is enough to get Merlin to agree to anything. "To the sea, then." 

"To the sea," Arthur repeats, smiling. This time Merlin is the one who leans close and kisses the happy curve of his mouth, but Arthur is the one who deepens the kiss, his hand coming up to cup the back of Merlin's neck as his tongue teases at the seam of his lips. They're both short of breath when they part and Merlin can't help the ridiculous grin that's surely on his face. It's still there after Arthur throws a chunk of bread at him, lingering on until Arthur presses him back against a tree and gives him the opportunity to use his mouth for something other than smiling again.

The string of Merlin's emotions that has been drawn taut for the last few days finally slackens, granting him the room he needs to slip back into the easy friendship he and Arthur have shared for so many years, though the undercurrent of affection they'd both tried to gloss over has risen to the surface in a myriad of touches and shared glances. His magic, too, feels more relaxed, less like it's boiling to the top of his skin, trying to burst from every pore, and more like the familiar hum he's used to.

They walk on until dusk, talking and bickering like they always have. When Arthur grumbles that his boots are pinching his toes, Merlin magics them bigger instead of suffering through the complaints, grinning triumphantly at Arthur's incredulous disbelief. It's an utterly silly use of magic, but the look on Arthur's face is more than worth it. 

When they make camp that night Arthur keeps a firm grip on Merlin's elbow when he tries to light the fire with flint and tinder, instead insisting that Merlin use his magic.

"I want to see the--" Arthur flutters his hand in the direction of the flames, "--again."

"I can't believe I know what you mean," Merlin mutters, then says, "Upastige draca!" and watches the little ember dragon rise from the sparks. He turns to Arthur to say something, make some sort of joke, but the way Arthur is looking at him with unguarded wonder makes the words crumble on his tongue.

"Thank you," Arthur says. He doesn't elaborate what his gratitude is for, merely watching until the dragon fades into the night. The moon paints Arthur silver again, but tonight Merlin does not fear it.

When Merlin is turned into Arthur's side and a hairsbreadth away from sleep, Arthur starts to speak. "I feel as though I am two different men who have happened to share the same space for the last ten years."

Merlin makes an inquisitive noise and pries his eyes open, though he cannot see anything beyond the white of Arthur's shirt and the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. 

"It was so different, knowing... knowing what I should have known for years. No, Merlin, shut up, I've made my peace with it. Before, I was a king who had a queen, a kingdom, a perfectly ordinary manservant. Then I was a wounded king with an extraordinary friend, and now I am a man with nothing but stolen boots." He pauses, his arm curling firmly around Merlin's back as he turns to lay on his side, his lips brushing the shell of Merlin's ear as he says, "Now I can have you as a man, if you'll have me."

"Arthur," Merlin says, solemn, "I would have you even if your stolen boots pinched your toes."

The resulting bark of laughter is bright and uncomplicated; the shove that follows is not unexpected. Merlin lands on his back with an exaggerated oof, grinning up at Arthur, who looms over him. 

"I was _trying_ to be serious, you utter idiot," Arthur says, then thoroughly kisses the breath from Merlin's lungs. 

"Doesn't suit you," Merlin returns when he can manage speech again. 

"You've rather ruined the mood I was aiming for."

"Have I?" he asks, pulling Arthur's hips down against his own, reveling in the spikes of heat washing up his spine as he pushes up into the contact. There is no hiding their mutual state of arousal. 

"Yes," Arthur lies, his voice gruff, but Merlin can feel his smile against his skin.

They are together that night in all ways, every touch a promise, every kiss an affirmation, every bout of muffled laughter perfect in its imperfection.

Soon enough they'll come to the sea; bartering passage on a ship will be simple enough with Merlin's talents on offer. From there the world is open to them, deserts and jungles and savannas waiting to be seen.

***

By the end of their first year together, they've both decided that camels are vastly inferior to horses and that deserts, on the whole, are to be avoided. Arthur makes great progress toward not behaving as if his every word is to be obeyed, aided by the general humility gained by having sand in places sand should not be. Merlin finds it's easier to protect someone who isn't a king, but there are times when he still finds himself on edge, jumping at shadows out of long-ingrained habit.

By the end of their first decade together, it's clear that neither of them is aging. They rarely stay in one place longer than a year, so it isn't a problem so much as it is disconcerting. They've seen much, but there is still more, and Arthur is just as delighted now to find new creatures, new forests, new seas as he was ten years ago. Merlin will never tire of the satisfied look on Arthur's face when they break new paths where no one else has been. The fear that Arthur will be snatched away in the blink of an eye has eased greatly.

By the end of their first century together, Merlin has stopped worrying.

***

Merlin can tell Arthur knows something he doesn't; after the millennium and a half they've spent together he's well-versed in every facial expression Arthur is capable of making. He knows Arthur will get around to telling him sooner or later, it hardly matters when -- but it's been a long time since Arthur kept anything from him.

"I've got to go back," Arthur informs him one morning over breakfast, half-eaten slice of toast in his hand.

"Back?" Merlin says blankly, wondering if Arthur had forgotten something at the corner shop.

A jerky nod. "To Avalon."

"Oh," Merlin says. Then, " _Oh_. It's time?"

"Yes. I think -- I think they're coming for me. Now."

"Now?" Merlin repeats, amazed at how wrong-footed he can feel after all these years. "But -- they couldn't have given us a bit of warning? What's so special about now?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I don't know, I can just feel it. I probably won't get a crown this time, will I? God." He rubs his hands over his face. "I feel just as unprepared as the first time, although now it's like I know everything and nothing all at once."

Merlin rises from the table and pulls Arthur up with him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing their foreheads together, trying to get as much contact as possible before Arthur's reign as the Future King takes shape. "It will be fine," he says with all the confidence he can muster. "I'll wait on the shore. You'll never be alone in this."

"At least this time I'll know what you're capable of." Merlin can feel Arthur's smirk against his lips and he responds in kind. "I don't know how long you'll have to wait for me to come back from Avalon," he says, mirth fading into a more somber tone.

"No wait will ever be worse than those first three days," Merlin says, a familiar sentiment echoed countless times throughout their years together.

Arthur nods, his gaze drawn to the window and the morning traffic below, just beginning to pick up. "I hope they'll let me have Excalibur again," he says, boyish smile on his lips as a bright beam of sunlight suddenly slants in through the gloomy clouds, making his hair shine golden. It shines so brightly it becomes impossible for Merlin to look at him, as soon as he drops his gaze there is a surge of ancient magic against his skin where Arthur should be. When the light fades, Arthur is gone.

Merlin heaves a sigh and drops his arms, calling his readied travel bag to him with a thoughtless flick of his hand. As he locks up their flat, their life, he wonders what the world has in store for them this time around, and knows in his heart that they will face it together.

**Author's Note:**

> Boom, totally canon compliant! :D


End file.
